


At a Glance

by Kahvi



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Body Image, Disordered Eating, Disordered thinking, F/M, Fat Character, Original Character(s), Romance, Romantic Comedy, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a series of random encounters with a girl who keeps showing up near the Sherlock set, Benedict finds himself interested and fascinated... when he accidentally insults her. Can he find her again and set things right, or is she gone from his life forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, and the characters herein are fictionalized. I have no knowledge of, nor interest to speculate on the actual lives of the real people on whom the characters are based. 
> 
> Written for a prompt over at http://bcsexualfrustrationblog.tumblr.com/, requesting Ben/plus sized female character.

The first thing Ben noticed were her eyes; bright and searching and _intelligent_ , in that undefinable way some people radiate that quality. They made her stand out in the rather impressive crowd, and made him, in turn, self concious when he realized he was staring. Yes, well done there; how could he complain of the stare of others (he tried not to) while guilty of the exact same thing? He was about to reach for a pen when he realized she might not even be waiting for an autograph - they were right next to a bus shelter, for fuck's sake - and tried to turn the gesture into a little wave, instead. A pair of teens at the front giggled, and oh Christ, this would be all over the internet now, wouldn't it? Another sheepish grin and odd gesture to go with his awkward, Sherlock-starved body and ridiculous hair. Thank god for the hat, at least. He tipped it, and the girl was gone. 

Of course. Not everyone was there to swoon at the sight of him. Ben smiled at himself as he entered the restaurant, nodding to Martin and Amanda who were already there, miming how late he was, and silently thanked her for the reminder. 

...

It was well after midnight when he came back out again, mind dulled from hours of reciting monologs and bewildering deductions, his legs sore - these shoes had never quite fit right - and they were _still out there_. It should, perhaps, be disturbing to be the object of such intense attention, but all Ben could think of was the lateness of the hour and the chill, and the determination and resiliance these people surely posessed. If nothing else, you had to give them credit for that; and there _was_ so much else, besides! He made a round or two, giggling a little when he found he was looking for the girl with those bright, intelligent eyes, because on reflection, she hadn't looked the part at all. Not there was a _look_ , but oh; he didn't even know what he meant; there was just something about the restlessness and the eager body language of a lot of these girls (and yes, boys too) that made it easy to pick them out from the autograph sellers - vermin that they were, even when they looked like eager fans. No, she'd gotten on her bus, and probably didn't even know his name. She'd had an appealing face, he remembered. Expressive, and a little thoughtful, like she was late for something. Yeah, all right, the bus. 

Ben waved goodbye to the stragglers, shaking hands and giving as many hugs as he could manage - tricky, that; there was the balance between the openness he wanted and the privacy he _needed_ and turned down the road to hail a taxi, crashing hard into a thing that gave a start of fright - he looked up... into intelligent, if startled, bright eyes. 

"I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," she squeaked - not quite the right adjective for her voice, but it would do; he'd need a while to come up with something properly suiting, because yes, this was her. And be it the long day or the surprise or perhaps he'd hit his head, but Ben found himself unusually tongue-tied. 

"Oh... don't be; don't be! Don't be sorry; I'm sorry - erm, I'm... let me help you-" her bag had fallen to the pavement, wallet and pens and little things spilling everywhere. 

"Please; no! It's all right, it's really all right..." Her shoes were _amazing_ , Ben noted, bending down; four inches at the very least, but solid; no balacing precariously on stillettos for this one! 

"Did I get everything?" He handed her a stray Tesco loyalty card, watching the join of her neck and shoulder, despite his best efforts. It was the way her breasts were heaving, perhaps. He couldn't look at them.

"Please... no," she said again, taking the card and stuffing it awkardly into a side pocket, "I'm embarrassed to even be here."

"I saw you earlier," Ben blurted out, trying to kick his own shin for sheer idiocy. 

Her mouth formed an 'o'. "Oh, god. I'm really sorry about that."

"Sorry? Why?" Ben felt like he was missing part of the conversation. 

"I'm much too old for this."

"You don't look old." Oh, smooth. Very smooth there, Timothy Carlton Junior. "That came out wrong."

She laughed, and goodness, her laugh was lovely!

"I don't want to keep you," Ben found himself saying, avoiding her eyes, and god, that was so rude, but so would staring into them like an idiot have been! He didn't want her to go; he wanted to ask her name and get her number and all sorts of ridiculous things you shouldn't ask a stranger you'd _literally_ just bumped into on the street. He half-hoped she'd protest, but she shook her head, blushed, and clutched her handbag shut.

"I'm so sorry," was all she said before brushing past him. She was Martin's height, Ben noted, in the way brains notice useless things, and didn't smell of anything in particular. A pretty girl, with brilliant eyes and gorgeous shoes; nothing Earth-shattering. 

But just that one short moment, and her voice and her smile and her breasts had made him hard. 

He blushed, and stepped into the now-waiting taxi, and tried to memorize her face, even as he knew he should be forgetting it.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course there was no chance Ben would ever see her again, and no reason why he should want to, really. She was a pretty girl that caught the attention of his mind - and his penis, granted - but there were a lot of pretty girls and his penis wasn't exactly starved for attention. All right, perhaps a little, lately. You couldn't really keep up much with the party scene with his schedule, and he wasn't really dating anyone at the moment, and, well... He had _liked_ her. 

Martin certainly noticed; it took exactly twenty hours (sleep being something they thought about fondly these days, and tried to fit around production schedules) for him to comment on Ben's 'moon-eyed' stares in the direction of the crowd outside. They were still filming on the same location. Two more scenes. A day and a half, maybe. Two at most. 

"You looking for a girlfriend?"

"Yes, yours. I think she went off with the caterer. Said he was a better cook than you."

"She."

"All the better."

"Stop cocking around and tell me who she is."

"Who?" Ben was genuinely confused, and Martin rolled his eyes. 

"That girl you keep looking for. I'm assuming it's a girl. I don't know why; I've never known a straight man get so excited about shoe shopping in Camden."

"I'm not looking for her," Ben said, realizing his mistake far too late.

"Hah!" Martin pounced, grabbing his shoulder in what must have been intended to look like a judo move. "I'm on to you. How old is she? Fourteen? Seems to be the median age out there."

"Oh, stop it; you know it isn't."

Martin raised his hands. "Yeah, OK. Sorry." His smile fell a little, along with his arms. "Look, it's... you're a grown man. You mind your own business. It's just... I don't want you to get hurt."

Ben frowned. "Hurt?"

"Dating fans. It's not the best idea."

"Amanda was a fan." Dating? Who'd said anything about dating? 

"Still is, son." He leered, then sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. "No, but you know what I mean. She didn't draw pictures of me sucking other people's cocks."

Ben flushed at the image - one he knew well, Martin having shown several variations thereof at every convenient and inconvenient occasion. "I don't think she's a fan," he said, desperately steering the conversation elsewhere. "She probably works in the area."

"Ben, there isn't anywhere _to_ work in this area! What; does she run that little cake shop across the road?"

"Maybe she lives here!" 

"Posh bird, then? Good; I wouldn't want you marrying beneath yourself."

Ben cuffed his ear, giggling, but as he ducked to avoid Martin's inevitable retaliation, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Keen eyes on high heels, watching them from outside the thick glass windows and behind the temporary fence. Martin, being Martin, swerved to look. 

"Oh. The tall one? In the red coat?"

"She's wearing heels."

"Trust you to notice the shoes." There was a note of something in his voice, but Ben was, he found, suprisingly distracted. "Go on then, bugger off."

"...I...what?"

"Go talk to her! They're still messing about with the tables; it won't be done for ages. You've got time."

It was probably his imagination, but for a second or two, Ben was sure he'd caught her eye. A moot point, at any rate, as Martin happened to be wrong, and it took just those two seconds for them to be waved back onto the set proper. And then, as they tended to, hours passed.


	3. Chapter 3

It had seemed like a good idea, that morning - if that was what it was, objectively speaking; it was getting hard to remember the time of day anymore - to bring his bike. He didn't have to arrive in costume, it was near enough to his parents to make it a nice, little ride, and it meant he could stay there rather than at some depressing hotel. He liked hotels; _loved_ them for the most part, but the particular breed you tended to get booked into by the BBC had their very own, lackluster brand of ennui which Ben was very happy to avoid. So, yes, it _had_ seemed like a good idea. 

Now, however, he was aching from having run back and forth and pretending to get his nose broken over and over again, mentally as much as physically - Sherlock took up a lot of space in his mind - and though riding always pleasantly blanked his brain, his legs had rather their own idea of what they thought of the prospect of clutching warm metal for more than an hour. Which, granted, was just soreness and pain, and he could work through that, but it would leave him less alert, and given that he was half-asleep anyway... He looked at bike, forlornly. Yeah. 

It was past midnight; closer to 1 AM, and so the last thing he expected was to run into anyone. As Martin had pointed out, this was a mostly residential area, with the sort of residents that didn't seem likely to roam the streets in the early hours. Even the fans had gone home; they'd all waved to the last two, who'd ran to catch the last bus just after they'd wrapped. God knew how it had taken nearly two hours for Ben to leave, after that, but there was always something to discuss, someone to pick his brain, and well, here he was...

...and a woman was walking right towards him. 

Not that she seemed to have noticed; she had her head down, eyes glued to her phone, and Ben was wondering if she would crash into him a second time when, at the last moment, she looked up, and started. "Oh!" A soft voice. Ben still lacked the words for it, proper words. It was... lovely. Yes. More useless drivel. 

"We meet again." _And you wonder why you've never won a BAFTA?_

"Oh god." She flushed, or at least Ben assumed that's what it was; it was dark, and her face looked almost grey in the dim streetlight. "I can't imagine what you must think."

"I think there are worse people I could keep bumping into."

A horrible line, but she laughed, and her laughter was so sweet that Ben instantly wanted it to keep on going. Suddenly he was back with Martin on set, where the only thing that mattered, outside the takes, was making Martin laugh. "I missed the bus," she explained, "and it's murder trying to find a taxi around here."

"Fitting." 

It worked; she laughed again, and Ben laughed with her, giddy. How could he feel like this about a girl whose name he didn't even know? 

"You don't live around here, then?" She hesitated, just long enough for Ben to realize how creepy that had sounded. "S...sorry, I just meant - if you're getting a taxi-"

"It's all right." She just giggled now, but that was sweet, too. A different flavor. And her eyes twinkled. "You're being very nice to an obnoxious fan, you know."

A fan. Something in his gut twisted - it was too soon to know if it was bad or good, but a feeling had set root there. "I wasn't sure if you were a fan."

More laughter, running out of her like rain. "I've been here every night!" 

"You don't look like a fan," Ben hurried, instantly regretting it. Predictably, she looked offended. 

"What do you mean?"

He backpedalled, furiously. "Nothing! That was a very silly thing to say; I'm sorry, it's late. I'm not all there. I just meant you never looked like you weren't kitted out for a day of camping out at the set. I thought perhaps you worked in the area."

He face relaxed, looking less stern, but always lovely. "Oh. Well, I... actually, I do."

"You do? Where?" Too eager, but it just tumbled out. And he did want to know. She deliberated, very obviously. Too cautious to be interested. One of Martin's fan's probably. Or Rupert's. Probably Rupert's. 

"The cake shop on the corner," she said, tilting her chin slightly, as though she was waiting for something. Ben giggled. "What's so funny?" Her tone had changed. Ben couldn't quite tell to what. 

"That's exactly what Martin said! 'Does she work in the cake shop?'" 

She didn't move. She didn't make much of a sound, other than what her shoes did as she turned smartly on her heel. For a moment, Ben was too surprised to follow through, and when he realized she was going, indecisiveness took over. He'd clearly offended her, somehow. The click of her heels alone told him that. But why?

_Cake_ , part of his brain supplied, because part of his brain always did. He told it to shut up, and informed his legs that they would have to deal with the ride now and shut up about it, because his brain was hurting more than they were.


	4. Chapter 4

It was all too predictable, perhaps, that he dreamed about her that night. In the little bedroom in his parent's house, surrounded by stuffed owls, it felt almost obscene. Ben woke, half-remembering what had made him quite uncomfortably hard, sweating in the light sheets that was all he could stand by ways of bedding this time of year. It wasn't yet summer, but his metabolism didn't seem to know that. _Breasts_ , a thought that was more his gut than brain informed him. Yes, there had definitely been plenty of that. Firm. Soft. He ran a hand down his sweat-slick side, blinking the stinging salt out of his eyes. Jesus. You'd think he'd just ran ten miles! His heart was racing, too. Was he sick? No, please _no_. Not in the middle of a shoot! 

Fumbling for his mobile, Ben found it was actually stuck to the back of his thigh, digging into the soft flesh painfully. He muttered vague words of irritation, and tried to read the numbers on the little screen. Oh, they could mean anything. His alarm hadn't gone off yet. He flopped back onto his pillow, and tried to relax, but his body had... other ideas.

Ben chewed his lip. He didn't like to do this. It'd be worse than the dream; at least that wasn't intentional. But, well... sleep wasn't coming, unless he did. He giggled at the infantile pun, the sound turning to a whimper when his hand touched his cock. It was almost uncomfortably hot, but wet too - it really was absurd, how he sweated - and that... that made him feel... He gasped, stroking very gently, before realizing how ridiculous that was, and moving faster and gasping at how quickly it all went. So, so quick. He was racing himself, teeth gritting, lest he shout as he came, and he did, catching himself by surprise. 

He lay in the half-light, wet, warm come on his hands, gasping. No. Yeah. It had definitely been too long. (But he didn't usually get like this when he was between dates, as it were. Not quite like this.)

He tried to remember her face and found that he couldn't, and wasn't that odd? He had a vague impression of her body; the soft, curving shape of her, and her eyes, and her voice. He shook himself awake. He should take a shower. 

 

\-----

 

Country cottages being what they were, showers were always something of an adventure. At least there was one in the tiny bath adjacant to Ben's room, with some effort having been attempted towards convenience. Still, there was no avoiding the five minute wait hanging precariously over the edge of the tub whilst jiggling the mechanism that - in theory - would make the water flow steadily and warmly from the showerhead. Ben endured it much in the same way he endured an unwelcome workout on a bad day, then ducked his head underneath the lukewarm trickle, and closed his eyes. 

Oh, _what _; he was hard _again_. __

__Ben sighed, determined to ignore it, this time. He jiggled the knob - not his own, importantly - a little to the left and gusts of icy water spat over him in brusts. He gasped and coughed, but felt almost entirely awake by the time he noticed the relentless buzzing of his phone in the other room._ _

__"Wonderful," he muttered, gingerly stepping out of the tub and onto the rough carpeted floor. His toes curled as if to gain better balance as he reached for the towel. The advantage of a cold shower was, of course, that the room felt comparatively warm, but his skin still prickled, his nipples hard as rocks. _Like a girl,_ he thought, unhelpfully, as the thought of curves and breasts and sweet voices filled his mind again._ _

__Wrapping himself in the towel, awkwardly, he noticed the time - finally - and the caller ID at the same time; Mark, and he was very, _very_ late indeed._ _


	5. Chapter 5

"Got something for you." Martin was never annoying - hillariously so, at the worst of times - but right now, Ben honestly did not have the presence of mind for him. 

"What." 

He had a three minute deduction to memorize, which seemed to be composed entirely of fourteen-syllable words. And he hadn't slept. And his body was still... distracted. Martin kept waving something in his face, until Ben snapped, and grabbed the thing off him. It turned out to be Martin's phone.

Ben sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Just show me." It'd be quicker that way. 

"I would, if you'd give it back to me."

Ben did so, mutely, and Martin finally held it still. And Ben realized what it was. A picture. A picture of a girl, taken at a distance through the thick glass window of a restaurant. "Oh." 

Martin grinned. "Yeah. She was here this morning, looking for you, no doubt."

"Was she?"

"You sound surprised."

"Well, I..." God, he didn't want to drudge through all that again. Not _now_. 

"Go _ooon_." Martin leered. 

"I didn't think she'd be back," Ben relented. Again, it was easier just to give in right away. "I'm pretty sure I offended her."

Martin laughed, in that way he did when he didn't actually think something was funny. "Jesus, Ben! What did you say to her? Christ, your mouth works too quickly for your brain sometimes, doesn't it?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you. I wish I knew. I... we bumped into one another accidentally-"

"-again," Martin nodded, casually.

" _Again_." What; did Martin think Ben had somehow _planned_ this? "And I asked her if she worked in the area. And she said she worked in the cake shop, so I said, 'that's funny'... what?" 

Martin was biting his fist. He pulled it out of his mouth, and shook it. He seemed to be vibrating, slightly.

" _What?_ "

It was laughter, Ben saw now. Martin was absolutely shaking with repressed laughter. "Good fucking god, Ben! You didn't tell her that? Please say you're joking."

"I..." All traces of script was gone from his mind, and Ben hated that; he didn't want this distraction, he wanted to work and concentrate and be useful, for a change. "Why shouldn't I have? It's what you said..."

Martin gathered himself, and, noticing Ben's expression, lay a hand on his shoulder. "Ben." His smile faded. "Oh, sweetheart."

"Stop calling me that." 

"But you are, you know. An absolute sweetheart. You don't see it, do you?"

This was a bit much. Ben's voice was sharper than he'd meant for it to come out. "See _what?_ Stop with all the cryptic wank; I really don't have time for this now, honestly."

Martin wasn't phased. "Look at her," he said, proffering the phone again. 

"I know what she looks like."

"Yeah, but just look at her."

Ben did, though at this point it was more of a glare. "She's a lovely girl."

"And?"

" _Please_ just tell me-"

"You told this girl you thought she worked in a cake shop, and _laughed_. _This_ girl."

Ben wanted to snap back, but Martin had a very commanding air about him. Ben looked. She really was beautiful; full, shiny hair, expressive eyes, tall, elegant shoes, breasts that were just large enough to- 

He rubbed his eyes. Large. Oh. Oh bloody hell, he was an utter arse of a half-wit. "Yeah," Martin said, putting the phone down. "There we are. I knew you'd get there in the end."

"I'm an idiot. I'm an arsehole."

"You're an adorable arsehole. Takes one to know one."

Ben shook his head. "That's the last I'll see of her, then."

"Oh, I doubt that."

Ben looked up, sharply, not in the mood for jokes, but Martin was nodding at the picture on his phone again. And smiling.

Ah. Well, he had a point.


	6. Chapter 6

The cake shop, as it turned out, was absolutely ridiculous. Ben was salivating the moment he stepped inside the door, and wasn't that the perfect accessory to his sheepish expression, ruffled hair and half-costumed frame? He looked an utter arse which, come to think, actually was appropriate. _Yes,_ he told himself, _do keep drooling. I think you'll find that if you look directly at her breasts whilst doing it, that would help immensely._ Her breasts, however, were nowhere in sight. The little shop was filled with customers, all crowding around the register, and the abhorrantly tempting displays beneath it. Ben felt in his pocket for his packet of emergency gum; today was a low-calorie day, and he hadn't exactly been saving them. 

It was impossible. Everywhere Ben turned, there was another fancifully decorated cake or cupcake or elaborately dressed up chocolate biccy. He didn't have all that much time; they were only breaking for an hour, and it had taken him half that time to muster the courage drag himself down here in the first place. And, of course, there'd been no time for anything resembling lunch. Ben glanced back over at the register, and - yes - thankfully, _there_ she was! The place was still busy as bees, however; he could just barely see past the loudly chatting man directly in front of - hell, he still didn't know her name! And, so, there was nowhere to look but at the cream and icing and shortbread and sugar, and maybe it was his nerves or the fact that she was so close, or the fact that he was so hungry he could eat his own knuckles - and right now he was trying to - but, well. He was... he had an erection. 

Wonderful.

Ben kept his eyes on the somewhat inoffensive bunch of white chocolate flowers in the window; they almost didn't look like they were edible, which helped. A little to the left of them stood the small figurine of an exaggeratedly happy cow - unless that was chocolate too. Surely not; how could anyone bear to eat such a lovely little thing, with its little bell on a ribbon around its neck, and those innocent, unnaturally blue eyes? Ben found himself grinning at it when he heard a level voice from behind: 

"Can I help you, at all?"

It was such a tiny, cramped little place; he'd only been distracted for a minute, but that had been enough time for everyone to have gone, leaving Ben... leering inanely at a cow. "Ah," he said, again at a total and utter lack of words. "Um."

"Ah?" She repeated, raising an eyebrow. It was a lovely eyebrow. 

Ben shook himself, hoping the idiom about sense was literal. It didn't seem that way; he didn't know where to rest his eyes. He couldn't meet hers. _Coward._ "I don't know where to begin - I can't tell you how-"

"-how terribly sorry you are?" Ben's head snapped up and he _did_ meet her eyes, brutally. Metal wasn't usually that color, but that was what they looked like, here and now. Cold, hard metal. "Please don't bother. Are you here to buy anything?"

It was the most blatant dismissal Ben had ever been slapped with, and he'd been slapped with a few. He held her eyes. He could do that, at least. "No. I suppose telling you it was all a misunderstanding won't matter much?"

To Ben's surprise, she laughed. It was rather less lovely than he remembered. "Oh my god. You are un-fucking believable." She wiped at her eyes, which didn't make sense. "You know, I honestly thought you were different. I kept defending you from my friends, whenever the tabloids had their way with you, and they'd tell me, 'he's a bloke; he's a rich, white, posh celeb; he's not worth it.' But I'd tell them that's not who you were; that you were decent, sweet, and nice to fans." 

She sniffled, and Ben, to his horror realized why. He cast about for something to say, but yet again, absolutely nothing came to mind. _Disappointment_ was all his brain would supply. Or possibly his heart. He wondered if he'd ever been this ashamed before. 

"God," she yelled, "look at me! I always cry when I get angry. I kept telling myself I wouldn't, but..." She shook her head. "Just get out of here, all right? Go laugh with your friends about the angry, crying fat girl."

"You're not fat," Ben said, automatically, taking a step forward. It _hurt_ to see her like that!

"But I _am_ ," she snapped, turning towards him angrily. "And there's nothing fucking wrong with that!"

Mercifully, Ben was spared having to come up with an answer to that, as the bell above the door chimed, letting in a customer far more worthy of her time than him. He slinked out as they talked, very calmly, of birthday cakes and icing.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're welcome."

The script slipped from Ben's lap when he started, blinking up at Amanda in confusion. "S...sorry. What? Oh," he added when he noticed the mess of dog-eared pages on the floor and bent down to catch them. When he came back up, script cradled uncomfortably in his arms, Amanda was nodding towards a receipt on the table between them. 

"You're welcome," she said again, sipping at a mug of tea that looked suspiciously like Martin's. 

"For what?"

"For the flowers. Martin took them over. He told her she could punch him in the face; apparently, she liked that." Amanda grinned. "He can be charming like that, you see."

"What... flowers; what are you talking about?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Keep up, Cumberbatch! Martin and I got some flowers for Jane. You know," she added at Ben's blank stare, "your little cake shop girlfriend."

Ben's blood ran hot and cold, like the shower in his parents's cottage. "Don't call her that!" He'd been trying his best not to think about it all; it was too disruptive. There were limits to how calculating and aloof you could be while racked with guilt and... hang on... "Jane?" 

"Yes." Amanda smiled. "We got tired of watching you mope about it and not doing anything, so _we_ did."

"That's her name? Jane?"

"What were you expecting; Florabella Esmeralda Stargazer III? We can't all have names like yours; this isn't one of Martin's Sherlock stories. Anyway, you can stop beating yourself up about it, now. I got you the recipt because Martin told me you'd insist on paying me back."

"Of course," Ben muttered, a little dazed. _Jane_. 

 

\----

 

"You never asked me," she said much later, the pair of them huddled under a tree in the unforgiving late spring weather. 

"Asked you what?"

"For her number."

It was bitterly, brazenly cold, even with his massive coat and scarf. They were nowhere near as warm as they looked, and he was constantly hungry, these days. When he was young, he'd always eat to keep warm. The thought made him colder now, which had no logic to it. "Jane," he said, the name spilling out. "Why would I want her number?"

"Well, we won't be in the area again, unless we're doing pick-ups, and I don't know," she raised her hands, "I thought you were a bit keen." 

Ben looked at his shoes. The weather wasn't doing them any favors, either. "She'd hardly be interested."

Amanda muttered something into the wool of her scarf. It was a little eerie - and a little enviable - how much she looked and moved like Martin. After a moment, she turned her head, tilting it exactly like Martin would have, and smiled, just as crookedly. "I'll text you her number."

"Amanda..."

She shook her head. Fair enough; Martin never looked quite as impishly lovely. No matter how hard he tried. "Just take it. Mummy knows best."


	8. Chapter 8

You don't meet anyone by accident in London. It simply does not happen. Nevertheless, Ben tried his best. He'd seen the look on Jane's face when he left the shop; whatever Martin might have told her would not have made up for that. He should leave her alone; he certainly shouldn't contact her! 

But. Well. 

If he just _happened_ to come across her, somewhere? That... that might be all right. Part of him - most of him - fully realized the infantile idiocy of what he was doing; spending what little free time he had criss-crossing Chelsea and Kensington on the off chance some girl he'd, quite honestly, be lucky to recognize at a glance; of _course_ he should know better. And he did. But he kept going, anyway. He was trying to give up smoking; Ben figured he was owed a pointless and potentially hazardous hobby. 

He could, of course, go to the shop - after all, it had gone over so wonderfully well the last time - but well-meaning, if slightly obsessed admirers showing up at your place of work was a phenomenon with which Ben was all too familiar, and not something he would ever wish on others. Much less someone he liked. 

"You're not eating, dear," his mother had told him the other day; her own little euphemism for 'I know you're upset about something you don't want to talk about. Food was never the issue; if allowed, Ben would eat until physically unable to. Unfortunately. If weight loss had simply been a matter of having your heart broken repeatedly, he'd be all set. For example, in this particular instance, the question had come just as Ben had finished the last, massive piece of shepard's pie she'd made especially, to celebrate that he could eat normally for a week or two. One of the perks of a break in filming, the other being more free time, which... yes. 

Come to think, he could ask Jane out to dinner, now. Given the chance. Given that he still had teeth after approaching her. Given that he could actually find her. 

Ben slumped back against his grubby DLR seat, and watched the calm scenes of buildings floating by. At least he wasn't likely to find her _here_ in the middle of Stratford, he mused; though as anywhere, he'd be likely to find... _ah_. He smiled at the - he stopped himself from thinking 'little' - she could easily be sixteen - girl opposite, who rushed to put her phone away, mild panic registering in her dark brown eyes when she realized she had no pockets. 

"Hi," Ben told her. 

She blinked, uncertain, tossing her phone from hand to hand. 

"Would you like to take a picture of me?" 

The girl nodded, blushing. 

"Did you already take one?" He made his voice a little stern. 

"S...sorry," she whispered, eyes wide. 

"It's OK," Ben told her, already feeling better. Such a sweet, shy girl. "Thank you for being honest - you're quite welcome to take one, so long as you ask. All right?"

She nodded again, feverently. 

"What's your name?"

"...Ella." 

Ben leaned a little closer. "Would you like to take one of you and me together? Maybe we can ask someone else to take it for-" He turned to the woman behind him, in the bright red coat, and very nearly yelped. 

"I'd be happy to," smiled Jane.


	9. Chapter 9

"You were very nice to that girl." They were just past Poplar, where the girl had left, stuttering and staring. Ben should have left too; he was on the wrong train now, but he would tackle that particular problem when he had to. Not a moment sooner; not _now_. His agent was all too forgiving. 

"I didn't think I was, particularly. I try. It's frustrating, you know, the way people look at you and think you don't notice. But it's hardly her fault."

Jane smiled, a little crookedly, adjusting the strap on her bag. It kept sliding off her shoulder. "She was nervous. Probably just waiting for you to comment on her teeth."

"What about her teeth?" Ben was trying to decide which parts of Jane's body he could comfortably rest his eyes on. He _should_ be looking her in the eyes, of course, but that was a lost cause. Like he would be, if he tried. And then Jane laughed. 

"You reallly didn't notice. My god. Martin was so sweetly charming in his defense, but I didn't believe him. I just couldn't."

"What? What did he say?"

"He told me you don't notice what people look like. That you don't care."

"That's ridiculous," Ben spluttered. 

"I know!" They giggled together, amazingly; incredibly. _All Saints_ came and went, and Ben silently thanked them. "But it's true. That girl whose week - possibly year - you just made has a front tooth missing."

"No," Ben said immediately, "I would have noticed."

"But you didn't!" Jane grinned, and Ben made an effort not to stare obviously at _her_ teeth. What else was he missing? "Honestly, who doesn't care what people look like?"

"But I do care; I do notice," he protested; "you're absolutely drop-dead gorgeous!"

They blinked at one another. "You don't have to say that," Jane told him, gently. 

"I know I don't! I mean it. You're stunning; you're very attractive, and I truthfully wish there were a way I could make up for making you believe I thought otherwise." 

The strap on Jane's bag had fallen off completely. She didn't seem to have noticed. "I... what would you do if I believed you?"

"I'd ask you to consider letting me take you to dinner somewhere. Anywhere you'd like. Please." He twisted awkwardly to face her, shaking as the train did. He could smell her slightly acrid shampoo. 

Jane grabbed her bag and stood. "This is my stop," she breathed, pulling away from him. 

"Please," Ben said again.

She didn't quite shake her head, but the door closed nonetheless, and she was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

Ben moped - there was no other word for it - in his suit and gelled -down hair, wishing there was a way for him to just remain in the make-up chair for the next couple of hours. The rain against the unwashed windows wasn't doing much to cheer him up; summer was not about to take London into its clammy grip any time soon. All for the better that he wouldn't be around for much of it, Ben tried to reason himself into thinking. New York, Toyko, New Zealand - had there been a point when his life had _not_ consisted of changing time zones every other week? Not the best situation, all told, in which to start a relationship, really. Well, there was a bright side, wasn't there? 

He might as well admit it to himself, he had always been like this; backwards in going forwards. It had gotten better - much, much better - since the last time he was single, back in the stone age, but the more he cared about someone, the worse he seemed to be at actually approaching them. With Jane, he was clearly seventeen again, which might have been endearing if it wasn't so fucking impractical. He found himself looking up restaurants she might like on his phone, but it was just a reminder of how he knew next to nothing about her, so he stopped. A dully smiling girl took him to the next room, and asked him if he wanted still or sparkling water, which he didn't, particularly, and dully smiled herself away. 

And then, unfortunately, they let the reporters in, which Ben supposed they had to, for a press conference. 

Most journalists had learned by now not to ask about his love life, but there were always one or two questions for him to smoothly deflect, telling them to fuck off in all words but those two. Funny how they all appeared to think he was swimming in vaginas, which was almost as annoying as the assumption that it was the thing he preferred. (It was, as it happened, but that wasn't the point!) And so, all things considered, Ben was not in the best of moods when the sleek-haired, sunglassed little whelp from god knew which tabloid - he did try to remember, but these situations always made him space out a little - raised the issue of when he was going to settle down and raise a family. Yes, because Ben wasn't quite feeling miserable enough, thanks very much. "When the time is right," he groused, turning his head meaningfully to the next raised arm, but he was not in charge of this. 

"You're not getting any younger," Sunglasses leered. "Come on. You can't be lacking in offers! I'll bet there's a line forming outside right now." 

One or two people laughed, Ben very much not included. "What do you expect me to do; go out there and pick someone at random?" He could see the idiot gearing up for another quip, but Ben waved him into silence. "No, honestly; people say that like it's a joke; that a lot of women would volunteer to have my children. That's not a joke; that's horrible! Setting aside what it says about your views on women - so many people have children without giving any thought to it at all; so many come by parenthood accidentally. That's not what I want. I want a family. And for that I need the _right_ person, not just _a_ person. All right?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his agent her head and trying not to smile. The room had gone rather quiet. _One person_ , Ben thought. How did people do that; how did they find and hold on to one another? He and Olivia had just sort of happened; he hadn't been paying attention at the time. He hadn't thought he needed to. What if it never happened again? He sighed. 

"Now, would someone like to ask a question about the film?"

 

\----

 

"You should take her here," James insisted, prodding Ben again with his fork. 

Ben laughed, and snatched his arm away. " _The Fat Duck?_ Just how d'you imagine that would go down?"

"It's a three star Michelin restaurant."

"And you're stabbing me with a fork."

"You deserve it."

Ben giggled into his third glass of wine. Jesus, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so full and happy. "Yeah, all right! I know I've porked out, but there's no need to eat me just yet. We haven't had dessert!" 

"I don't really know if that's what you're supposed to call it."

"Whatever."

"You should take her here." The fork was down, as was James's face. "I'm serious."

"I can tell."

"You're being too flippant about it; I know you. That means you really care. So do something."

"You're not the first person to say that."

"Ben." Not the fork, this time, but a friendly, long-fingered hand, steadying him. Ben relented, and met James's eyes. He had not, he realized, all evening. "Ask the bloody girl out."

"I did." What was the point of this; they were having a good time; why spoil it? "She's not interested."

"She said no, then?"

"She didn't say anything." She'd looked... frightened. Ben pushed his empty plate away. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her further. 

"So, ask her! You have her number, don't you?"

"I have _your_ number, that doesn't mean I should ask you out." James wiggled his eyebrows until they both collapsed in giggles. "I don't want to make her uncomfortable."

"So? Tell _her_ that, not me!" 

The waiter interrupted Ben before he could kick James's shin under the table, but by the end of the night, drunk and flushed in the back of a cab, he pulled his phone out and eked out a message. 

_It would make me happy to make you happy. Would you dine with me?_

He stumbled into bed without an answer, but in the early morning, his phone buzzed.


	11. Chapter 11

In his mind, Ben had been sitting in the chambre séparée for hours when she first arrived, wrecked with nerves and buzzing from the wine that was too expensive to be swilled at the rate he was downing it. But with Jane standing in the doorway, lit by candles and clichés, gorgeous and impossibly there, he could finally exhale, and get up, and oh-so-suavely embrace her…

In his mind.

In the ever-harsh reality, altogether more familiar, he was contorting out of his traffic-stuck taxi, grazing the legs of his new pinstripes and muttering ‘fuck’ under his struggling breath. How could he possibly make it in time? He was already nearly fifteen minutes late, and she wasn’t answering her phone - was there no sodding end to his self-sabotage? How the promise to himself of being two hours early had turned to this was an abject mystery; not an unfamiliar one, but no less infuriating for it. 

He pulled his phone out again - to check the GPS this time - he was _miles_ away; literally. And there, in his inbox, the last message he’d gotten from Jane; the little miracle; the one where she agreed to meet him. They hadn’t spoken. It had only been two texts - perhaps he’d misunderstood. Perhaps she’d - an irate Honda honked him away to the curb and over it, nearly tripping over his feet. OK. Fine. Three and a half miles away. Ignoring the stares and giggles, Ben pulled his coat off and folded it up tight enough to hold in one hand. Then, wondering what this would do to his patent leathers, he ran.

* * *

Twenty odd mintues later – particularly odd to the people who had clearly recognized him as he ran past; judging by the camera flashes, it’d be an interesting few hours on Twitter today – drenched and partched, shirt very definitely ruined, he approached the impressively calm Maitre’d. Ben got the distinct impression she’d seen worse, and far later, arrivals. By the time she’d shown him to the cloak room, he very nearly asked her if there was any way they could provide him with a clean shirt, so disarming was her manner. Instead, he bit his tongue and hoped Jane (if she had bothered to wait for him, and not just so she could verbally assault him in person) would allow him to slip off to the bathroom soon enough for him to splash on… the after-shave he didn’t bring with. Ben rubbed his face with his hands, as he was guided through the tables and into the closed-off section at the back, which was unfortunate, as it meant he only noticed he was standing next to Jane’s questioning face after a good half-minute.

«I’m so very sorry,» he spluttered, but Jane shook her head.

«You’re always apologizing! Come on, sit down, have a drink. You look like you need one.»

«Water,» Ben agreed, quaffing down the glass already poured for him. «Could you please bring me some more,» he told the waiter who’d materialized much as the Maitre’d had vanished. «Quite a bit more, if you could.»

«Rough day?» Jane was smiling. Ben had not, it struck him with a pang of something between guilt and curiosity, looked at her properly. She had… she was wearing a dress of some sort. Possibly red. He couldn’t concentrate on it; all he could see was her smile and her _face_ and way her hair fell around it like a perfect paspartout.

«I wish I had that excuse. I don’t; I’m sorry.»

«I told you to stop saying that!»

«But I am! I’ve been so worried I’d show up, finally, and you’d be gone. You’re too patient with me. Like my agent.»

Jane laughed, and it was wonderful. It was always wonderful. Ben wiped his hand across his brow and gtimanced when it came away wet. «Did you run all the way over here?»

«Not all the way. My taxi had to give up.»

«Didn’t try going through Oxford street, did it?»

«It did.»

«Bloody hell, no wonder, then.»

«I’m so glad you’re here.» He had to say it. He wanted to keep saying it, over and over, but he’d sound like an idiot.

«You were so sweet to invite me.»

More water arrived, and Ben grabbed it thankfully. It stopped him thinking too much about what exactly _that_ meant. «I wanted to,» he told her when he emerged. «I didn’t know if you’d accept it.» He shook his head. «I know I already said that, I keep repeating myself; you’ll have to forgive me.»

«It’s all right; I do that a lot.»

«Christ; I didn’t mean…» _Idiot, idiot!_

But Jane laughed, properly this time, raising her own glass and smiling at him over it. «You’re so jumpy! Why’re you so nervous, you’ve no reason to be.»

Didn’t he? Finally having time to breathe meant finally having time to consider and take in the situation. The room was wonderful; dark and sombre and candle-lit. Wood-panelled walls, all nicely understaded in that comfortable way that doesn’t make you feel out of place no matter what you’re wearing. That said, though sweat-soaked and mussed, Ben still felt embarrassingly overdressed in contrast to Jane’s very sharp, rather work-appropriate black shirt with all the buttons done up, neatly. No jewlery; her ears, he saw, weren’t even pierced. No necklace or bracelets or bangles or anything of the sort. No rings. There she sat, smiling at him gently, carefully, nakedly. Ben flicked his phone out of his pocket, scrolling down to Jane’s last message. _Sweet of you – see you there._ And the on above; him telling her which restaurant. Above again, her first reply: _Really no need, but if you’d like. Where?_ Hardly a romance novel, was it? From the other side of the table, Jane coughed. Ben straightened, guiltily.

«Don’t worry, I know how it is. Work, yeah?» She really didn’t look upset, but she didn’t look nervous either. God, she was being _polite_. She’d come because she felt she’d had to.

«Just checking something; I’ll put it away. No work tonight,» he said, firmly. The very least he could do was let her enjoy this to the absolute full. «Have you ordered? I hope you have.»

«Of course not; you texted me you’d be late.»

«I tried to call you, too, later on.»

She whet her lips, and Ben crossed his legs. Wet lips _did_ things to him, and his guard was so definitely down. «I’ve got my phone in my jacket; it’s in the cloakroom.» She grinned. «Guess it’s my turn to apologize.»

«Let’s stop apologizing and order instead; you must be starving!»

«Oh, it’s all right.»

«No, really; I can’t imagine you’ve ever had to wait quite this long for food.» The words were barely out of his mouth when he realized, and pulled at the tablecloth in panic, as if things would be better if they were both soaked and vaguely lemon scented (why did they insist on putting those wedges in the water) - but Jane wasn’t there.

"Sorry, what?" She leaned up from the floor, putting a chapstick back into her purse. Ben exhaled, feeling asmathic. “Nothing." He was in for a long night.


	12. Chapter 12

It took some time for Ben to realize what the pained expression on Jane's face was. Not until their waiter had come and gone again, taking their drinks order - 'just water', she'd said (was she being overly polite; didn't she drink, should he ask; how could he ask; was it wrong of him to have said he'd have the same) did she burst into brilliant laughter. "You're really _are_ nervous," she spluttered. 

"No!" The denial came automatically, stupidly, and he blushed. "No... yes. I am."

"What on Earth could you possibly have to be that nervous about? Don't worry, I'm not going to-" she cast about for something ridiculous, hands waving expressively, "I don't know, sell my story to the tabloids or whatever. Do people still do that?"

Ben glanced down, his mood falling along with Jane's face. "Yeah, they do."

"Bad joke, sorry." The waiter came to take their wine glasses away. As the door closed behind him, Jane added, "Does it happen a lot; pap photos and that?" She shook her head. "What a stupid question; of course it does."

"Too often. It's hard to keep anything private. If I have my picture taken with a woman, everyone thinks I'm fucking her." Ben glanced at her, quickly; he'd felt too relaxed to think about his language. Jane didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, she seemed amused.

"And are you?"

Jokes. _Good_. That generally meant things were all right. Whatever 'things' were. "Obviously. It's impossible for me to have my picture taken with someone whose genitals I haven't touched. They don't come out properly; there's just a blank space where I should be."

"Like a vampire?"

"Exactly like that."

"So you've touched Martin Freeman's cock?"

The waiter, in accordance with narrative causality, chose that particular moment to return. Ben coughed into his hand while Jane rattled off her order; something involving fish, though Ben was too wrapped up in not choking to notice. "Same," he muttered, when attention turned to him, hoping it was something he'd like. The waiter merely smiled and nodded, getting out of their way. 

Jane, damn her, giggled. "That was too easy."

Ben giggled too. With relief. Surprising relief. Some of the tension was seeping out of his long-suffering muscles. "Well played."

"So, what _are_ you nervous about?" Her eyes were honest; earnest. All Ben could do was follow suite. 

"Disappointing you." Jane started to make a face again, but Ben waved her off. "I keep doing it - I suppose I'm getting slightly paranoid."

"Well, I don't get invited out to five star restaurants often enough to be disappointed by it, so I think it's safe to say you're already home free."

"That's a shame. People should take you to restaurants all the time."

"Yeah?" She tilted her head. She wasn't wearing make-up, not as near as Ben could see. How could she look so dressed up without being dressed up at all? Why was his _cock_ responding to _that_ , for fuck's sake? Maybe it was quite simply her. Everything about her made him horny. God, he had to try to think about something else. 

"Do you like fish?" He very nearly threw his hand over his face. Jane was laughing again, but he couldn't keep up that luck. Sooner or later, this oafishness would stop being charming. 

"I love fish, actually! My dad took me to New Orleans once; my granddad is from there. You won't believe the sort of things they do with seafood over there."

"Oh, I would. I've been!" 

"My graddad was a chef. My dad is too; my whole family works with food. I'm the only pastry chef, though."

"You're a pastry chef?" Was he salivating? This was not normal. What would happen if they got dessert; would he have an orgasm under the table and have to sneak off to the loo to change his pants? 

"Absolutely. Why do you think I work in a cake shop?" She giggled. "Wait; don't answer that. We'll have to go through this whole thing all over again."

"I'm so-"

"Oh, shush." She leaned across the table, a confident little gleam in her eye, at which point, of course, the waiter arrived with their fish. It was delicious, or at least so Ben assumed from Jane's expression and exclamations; he was too busy noticing them to judge for himself. 

"So wait," Ben's thoughts were slowly catching up with him, and some of them made less sense than others. He waved a fork. "If you're from a family of chefs, why don't you go to restaurants that often?"

"I do - just not five star ones. And all that often these days - Mum and dad retired a few years back, and you know..." She fiddled with a piece of what was possibly haddock, her shoulder rolling really rather attractively underneath her blouse. "Work keeps me busy."

Here, quite possibly, was a chance to ask about what she might have time for in what little spare time she had, such as for example dating akward actors, but the last thing Ben wanted was to add further insults to existing injury, however much Jane insisted it was all healed. "It's a lovely shop," he chickened out. 

"Got a bit of a sweet tooth, do you?" She smiled, a little crookedly. When her lips drew up, Ben noticed, the edge of an incisor was just visible. Something so predatory should not be that attractive. "I can always tell."

"God, yes. Unfortunately."

"What's unfortunate about it? I'll have you know my cupcakes are _delicious_. Don't you want to try them?"

"I... ah..." Water. Thank god he could take a sip of water. 

"I'm only teasing. You have to keep in shape, right? For work?" She lifted her glass in question. 

"Now and then, yeah. But I've got a few weeks yet before I have to stay off the carbs."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell me you're not buying into that bullshit." 

"It seems to work. I'm on the Five/Two now, though."

"The _what/what_?" She giggled.

"Five days eating normally, two days on restricted calories."

Jane nodded, slowly. "Eating _normally_." 

"Not very long, though," Ben added, hastily. He didn't want to talk about this. He wanted to talk about the way her fingers ran along the side of the glass like she wanted to lick it. He wanted to run his lips down the side of her neck; he wanted to smell her, feel her hair against his fingers. 

"Would you like anything else, sir?"

Ben started at the intruding voice, water spilling down his hand and arm. "Coffee," he managed, waving away the efforts to take his glass or help him dry himself. 

"Coffee," Jane agreed, with something not entirely unlike a smirk.


	13. Chapter 13

_Coffee_ , when it eventually arrived, Jane complaining that she wasn't anywhere near done with her fish yet, turned into coffee and brandy, then just brandy, Jane protesting just slightly at first when the second one arrived. 

"I don't usually drink on a-" she stopped, pretending something got stuck in her eye. Obviously pretending; she might be intelligent and funny and beautiful, but she was a ridiculously bad actor. 

_A what,_ Ben almost asked. Almost. Instead, he sipped at his glass, and tried to remember what they'd been talking about before she'd very nearly said the word 'date'. He was quiet just a little too long; enough for Jane to quirk a smile and put her napkin down in a very final sort of way. Oh _bollox_. 

"Well, anyway. It's been absolutely wonderful, and I don't really want to leave," which was, Ben knew, what people said when they really wanted to leave, "but I'm keeping you up too long."

"I don't have a bedtime," he tried. Hopefully not too pathetically. 

"You don't? Me neither. I'm a bit terrible like that. I used to be a runner, when I had the time." She gave him a guarded look. "I could never bring myself to get up early for it, so I ran at night. It was nice; lovely, really. If a little unsafe in North London. No time for that when you've got to be up at five ever morning, though."

"So you get up at five now?" She was a runner - like him! He should talk about that; stop reminding her she had a kerfew! 

She shook her head. "Go figure. I wouldn't do it for a half-hour run, but I'll do it to knead dough for an hour, apparently. And yet I can't drag myself off to bed before midnight to save my life." She yawned, then looked mortified. "God, I didn't mean-"

"It's all right," Ben said, gently. He was boring her, and she was sweet enough to give an excuse. It wasn't a date - that's why she'd stopped herself from saying it. It was a nice evening out with a bumbling, overgrown boy who wanted to apologize to her properly. Well, that part was true enough. And hadn't he had the pleasure of her company for the evening? He'd no call to be greedy. None at all. He motioned at the waiter, giving him his card before Jane could open her mouth again. 

"Thank you." Perhaps she was blushing, a little. It was getting awkward this; best let her out of her misery sooner rather than later. 

"No, thank _you_. Not everyone will let me natter their ears off like that without complaining."

"I did my fair share of nattering!" 

"You're very kind, but I know how I am. I just get carried away sometimes. I'm-"

She very slowly shook her head, brows raising sternly. Ben raised his hands. 

"No more apologies!"

"No more apologies," Jane agreed. "There's no need, anyway - I liked listening to your nattering."

"Oh, go on."

"No, I mean it! Do you know how often I come across someone who even knows Henrik Ibsen isn't Swedish?"

"About as often as I come across someone who's actually read him, I expect." 

"Honestly." She reached across the table, hesitating just before she reached his hand, so Ben bridged the gap for her. She looked down in surprise. Too much? Just holding hands; that was all right, surely? "I..." She looked up again, smiling. "You don't just chat mindlessly; you actually think about things. You have interesting things to say, and you're so excited to get them out sometimes that I think you forget where you are."

_Never. Not with you._ "That... happens."

"This has been really lovely." She squeezed his hand and bit her lip. Ben's breath caught. He had to force himself to look at her eyes, not further down, buttoned blouse or no. " _Really_ lovely. I appreciate the gesture, so much. I mean, you didn't have to."

"I didn't do it because I _had_ to!" He sounds angrier than expected, and Jane jumps a little, out of his grasp. "Jane, I _wanted to_. You're a wonderful woman, and I wanted to spend time with you."

Jane had turned away, looking for something in her purse, face unreadable under a tuft of stray hair. "That turned serious quickly," she muttered. The edge to the words wasn't quite right; too defensive. Something was wrong, and Ben didn't know how to fix it, so he didn't try. They sat in the closest thing they could manage to companionable silence until the waiter returned with the bill and a pen, and then, going through all the little motions as embarrassedly as one might expect, they gathered their clothes and things and left in the general direction of the Tube. 

 

It was just on the wrong side of too chilly, but Jane would not accept Ben's coat. On his third attempt, she flinched like a frightened animal, a hint even Ben could take. She laughed it off, saying he'd startled her, and he probably had, but that was not the reaction of someone who was comfortable around the person they were with. Ben didn't understand it; he'd done absolutely everything he could not to offend her; to be kind and careful and attentive. Had he fucked it up, anyway? He probably had. He always did, didn't he? Kept pushing the wrong buttons, again and again. "Are you sure you won't let me call you a taxi," he tried, once more for the road. 

"No, no!" Jane waved her hands frantically. "I'm right on the Bakerloo line; it'll be much quicker this way." Her smile was only a little bit forced. "Like Sherlock Holmes." 

"Like Sherlock Holmes," Ben agreed. "Though he would have taken the taxi anyway." She laughed at that, and Ben felt oddly accomplished. 

"Will it be..." She hesitated, feet stumbling along with her words, "weird, if I tag along to the filming when you're back in London?" She said it so quickly he almost didn't hear it, but found he was smiling even so. 

"No! Of course not; of course it won't be! We'll - I mean, we'll be in Cardiff first, but you're more than welcome there too, if you like!"

Jane laughed in genuine relief. Was that it? Was she worried it would be odd for her to tag along as... as his... A dull heat spread from Ben's chest outward. This was a date. _This was a date_. "You silly thing." He wound his arm into hers, thrilling at the way she tried not to gasp. "Was that what had you worried?" It wasn't cold at all now, not at all.

"God, I don't know." Jane was a soft, warm glow beside him; he felt every inch of her hip and side and arm, wound into his. His body was singing. "I mean, it's strange to going back to being a fan, now that I've... that we're... you know."

"Ah, so you're a fan!" It was starting to rain; Jane was walking faster, but Ben didn't care. 

"Yes!" She squealed, neatly avoiding a puddle, and jumping in under the rescuing awning of Charing Cross station. "I did tell you - urgh, where's my Oyster card..." 

She pulled away to rummage in her purse, leaving Ben room to breathe and _look_ at her. Her hair was just lightly damp, dark and glittering, wide, beautiful eyes peering through it it; calves tense and shapely from the running and her staggering heels, skirt perfectly fitted to her thighs, and further up, the rounding curve of her stomach, smoothening to different curves higher up, and her neck... he had to kiss her. He _had to_. Then and there, before she slipped away again. 

Jane looked up, curious and happy. Shining. "What?" 

The perfect retort failed to materialize, so Ben leaned forward instead, eyes closing, lips prepared to meet... skin? His eyes flew open. Jane had turned her head. 

"Oops," she giggled, face flushing deeper than her burgundy shoes. "Very... very nearly got that wrong." 

"It's all right," Ben said, automatically. His heart beat out of synch, confused. 

"Don't want your girlfriend to come after me."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"...oh. Right. Well, I'm glad I didn't embarrass you, then." She patted his cheek, very quickly, like she was daring herself to. "You said I was silly; am I silly to think we're sort of... friends?" The car crash of emotions must have shown on Ben's face, because she waved it away immediately. "Of course it is, of _course_ it is; I'm so-"

Ben took her hand, startling her again. He shook his head. "No apologies. Remember?"

"No apologies," Jane agreed, trying a smile.

"And of _course_ we're friends. You're wonderful, and I hope you'll come see me in Cardiff."

"I'd really like that."

"I mean it. Please come." Ben squeezed her hand, and Jane nodded and was suddenly gone through the turnstile. 

Ben lingered, in the rain. It hadn't been a date, and Cardiff wasn't for weeks (and weeks).


	14. Chapter 14

Martin, of course, texted him about three seconds later, despite it only being just past ten. Probably getting close to his bedtime. Ben flicked his phone on with muted enthusiasm, not surprised to see his guess had been correct. 

_How'd the date go? Am I going to be an uncle, yet? Amanda has started knitting tiny socks._

_Wasn't a date_ , Ben typed back, stuffing the phone back in his pocket. The rain hadn't gotten worse, thankfully, but it was keeping at a moist, stead pace and he had not thought to bring an umbrella. His suit would be ruined, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. How could he have been so monumentally stupid? There had been absolutely no signs to indicate Jane had been interested in _him_ ; oh, Sherlock, certainly. She was a fan; she was a gorgeous, intelligent, elegant, independent, thoughtful woman who wanted his friendship and he was moping about it. Why yes, he'd take a good dollop of shame with his portion of humble pie, why not? Maybe he'd fatten up with a little sense. His phone buzzed again. Ben rolled his eyes, but pulled it out anyway. 

_Of course it was. Text her back and tell her how much you enjoyed it. Off to bed. Call you tomorrow._

Ben's lip twitched. Already in bed, more like, with a beautiful woman, and two dogs and a cat sprawled across it, talking in hushed tones not to wake the kids. Arsehole. 

Arsehole, certainly, but... Ben fingered the phone in his pocket. His neck was soaking wet, his hair dripping down it, but he didn't want to duck into the station and mix with the crowd just yet. Or possibly at all. He should take a taxi, get out the Talisker Alan had gotten him for a joke, and make a night of it. Sure. 

“Oh, fuck it.”

 _Had a lovely time! Can't wait to see you in Cardiff. Please do come. Will let you know when and where exactly._ That'd get Martin off his back. Right. Now, home, and Talisker oblivion.

Something nearby was buzzing. Wetly. Ben took a step in the direction of the sound, and a small object spun into the wall behind him with a loud crack. A red, phone-shaped object, now sliding quickly off in the direction of the busy road! 

“Wait,” Ben yelled, like an idiot, rushing after it, but a crowd of people were just exiting, hurrying to avoid the weather, and it would be a matter of seconds before... He dove forwards, gasping apologies and pushing aside coats and legs and bodies. If anyone recognized him... the worry barely registered underneath the panic of _losing Jane_. He'd never gotten her address, and having the number of her lost phone wouldn't count for anything when she reported it lost and got a new one. _No more Jane. Gone._ Rain poured down his back, running down his arms and arse and legs, into his face and eyes and nose and mouth. 

“Fuck!” 

“Oi!” A sharp, brash voice, screeching above the traffic and late-night din. 

Ben rose too quickly, nearly knocking out a woman with his elbow – he turned, but she was already walking away, head shaking, and the voice sounded again. 

“You looking for this, mate?” A hand was waving in the air, holding bright red phone. 

“Yes!” Ben pushed towards him, relief and water dripping from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he rambled, “thank you so much!”

“This your phone?” The man – boy, truthfully – grinned a little wider, and handed it over. 

“My... my g...girlfriend's phone, yeah.” The lie came too easily. 

“Girl in with that tight skirt? Got a good arse on her.” Ben barely hear the words, already through the turnstiles, but they stung even so. _Not those words. Not to Jane. Beautiful. Jane._ His teeth clenched and his hands twitched, but his feet kept moving towards the platform. He knew there was no chance, if he stopped to think, which he didn't; Jane was a runner, and a fast walker, keeping pace with him even in four inch heels. At least one train would have come and gone by now, so there was no-

“Jane!” 

Her hair, her face; how he could pick them out in this crowd Ben had no idea, but there she was, too far ahead, bent over, searching. 

“Jane!” He knew his voice would carry; he could project across rooms three times this size, but there was a busker with a saxophone at the junction next to her, and there was no recognition on her face; no reaction. 

Ben ran. London crowds are not, on the whole, natural dodgers, but apparently a soaking wet, gangly git in slippery shoes did the trick. Like the dead sea, they parted for a desperate man, but it was too late – Jane had righted herself and was turning into the southbound platform _southbound – southbound – Waterloo? As far as Elephant & Castle?_, oblivious. 

“Wait!” Ben skidded to a halt just as the doors were closing, searching the train's windows for her face and seeing nothing – but she wasn't on the platform; she was nowhere to be seen. She was gone. 

Falling back against the dirty wall tiles with a groan, Ben nearly lost his footing when something in his pocket buzzed – had she realized? Had she borrowed someone's phone? He grabbed the red mobile, but the screen was empty, and he rolled his eyes – his own phone. Of _course_. The evening was rapidly becoming an exercise in juggling phones. Ben sighed at the sight of the number on the screen, accepting the call more to stop the annoying buzz than anything else. Bloody Martin again. 

“I thought you'd gone to bed.” People here and there had begun to stare; not too obviously, but he would do well to avoid making even a greater fool of himself and keep a low profile. Unfortunately, this did not pair well with being stuck on a Tube train full of people. He tried to sink down into his jacket, cringing at the thought of what it would look like tomorrow. 

“I did. Couldn't get to sleep; Amanda's got a cold, and she's snoring like an asthmatic dog. Anyway, I said I'd call you later, so I am.”

“You said you'd call me tomorrow.”

“Whatever. I'm tired and bored and old and trying to live my life vicariously through an eligible young bachelor. So let's have it: how was your night?”

“Gone from bad to worse. She lost her phone.”

“Sorry; not following.” 

“Her phone!” Two minutes until the next train. How many stations could she have gotten off on, potentially? Jesus. “She dropped it, and I missed her just as she got on the train.”

“So, go after her!”

“I don't know where she lives!”

“That's a bit stupid, isn't it?”

“You're telling me!” Quite a few heads were turned now. He was getting too loud. Ben pulled back into the... well, lack of shadows, trying to lower his voice. “I fucked this up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“There's no reaching her now. She could be anywhere between here and the end of the line; I'll get on the next train, but god, I don't know...”

“What do you mean there's no reaching her?”

“I don't have her address, do I? I know; I know. I'm a cockhead.”

“Ben... you know where she works.”

The station had suddenly grown utterly quiet, or possibly that was just Martin's silent judgment booming all the way from his oversized country mansion. With his sleeping girlfriends and dogs and kids and perfection. “Oh,” Ben said, more to break the silence than anything else. 

“Yeah. Cockhead.”

Ben couldn't disagree.


	15. Chapter 15

It was, without doubt, a Talisker sort of evening. The bottle stood on a shelf in Ben's lounge, where it had been proudly displayed to every visitor since around May, which, all in all, had been rather fewer than Ben would have preferred. It had, despite (or possible because of) this never been opened. Now was very definitely the time. It was not the ridiculously expensive sort of Talisker – Ben had checked; he'd have felt bad about accepting it, had it been – but it smelled pleasingly of smoke and old money when the cork came off, and the color was dark and soothing. Whiskey had always been a comfort drink, for Ben. It had gotten him through times he didn't think there was any coming through, and though he accepted the fact that it might not be the healthiest of coping mechanisms, it was one that very thoroughly seemed to _work_. 

His clothes were soaking wet, but this was a priority; proper glass, like _so_. No ice, no water, no mixers; they only diluted the flavor and ruined the experience. It was the so-called 'right' way of doing it, yes, but more importantly, it was how Ben much preferred it. He stood at the kitchen counter, cupboard still open, eyes closed as he downed the first measure in one. When he opened his eyes, the room seemed clearer. Well, that wouldn't last very long. Ben took the bottle back into the lounge, along with the refilled and re-emptied glass, placing them firmly on the coffee table in front of the TV. Perhaps he'd watch some. Perhaps he'd just wallow in his own misery. Either way, it was beyond time for him to get into something warmer. A shower, first of all. 

There were ways to care for a drenched suit in order to prevent permanent damage, but right now they were last on Ben's To Do-list, possibly off the bottom, scribbled in the margin. For now, both jacket and trousers lay on the bathroom floor in little pinstriped puddles, shirt soon following. He stood for a moment in his boxers – his socks were on the radiator in the hallway, this one little detail a tribute to what his mother had always done – toes curling against the heated tiles. The part of Ben who always protested at luxury had been fairly vocal when he'd had that put in, but as the rest of him had pointed out, he liked being warm. He got cold easily, especially when he couldn't eat as much as he wanted, and you couldn't always keep moving to compensate. Or drink whiskey. Ben grimaced at the moping, horse-faced man in the mirror, and pulled his boxers down. He'd never been spanked – an affront to the public school stereotype, he knew; he hadn't been buggered by anyone there, either, nor had so much as a cock in his mouth – but times like these he felt perhaps he should have been. It might have beat some sense into him. He giggled at the absurd thought – perhaps the whiskey was already kicking in – and stepped into the slowly warming water.

One particular sort of stress relief did, naturally, come to mind as his body deliciously melted into heated bliss. Even thinking about Jane was enough to get him hard most of the time, but his body seemed to have reached an event horizon of sexual frustration; his erection deflating along with his hopes of ever seeing her naked. Now all he could do was sadly examine the lack of it. He ran his fingers down along his equally deflated abs – how fun it had been to have them, momentarily, but they did not belong on Sherlock's body – reaching the curls near his groin, and huffed in defeat. Too tired to even wank. Wouldn't Martin laugh, if he knew! Ah, well. Soap and water, then. At least he would be clean and warm, if not sated.

Ben didn't like to bother with dressing gowns most of the time, though ever since the Twitter-incident, he made doubly sure the blinds were down when he knew he might be walking around without anything on. Thankfully he'd checked _before_ starting on the Talisker, the third glass of which he was currently sipping, contemplating a fourth. It was nearing eleven, and he wasn't half as drunk as he wanted to be; he needed to step this up. With careful hands, he poured out a generous double, then, on reflection, a triple, gulping down most of it. The sofa wasn't quite long enough for him to stretch out on it comfortably, but Ben made his best attempt at a sprawl, even so. It was exceedingly hard to get comfortable; his shoulders, and more importantly, his brain, was stiff with the weight of disappointment and rejection. 

Christ, he needed to get off _somehow_!

There was, of course, always... Ben's eyes trailed towards his laptop, but that was no good; the wireless was out while they re-did the electrics on the top floor of his flat. That complicated things. He _did_ have a DVD or two or five, but he always felt vaguely guilty watching them, as though the medium on which porn was presented defined its moral quality. Perhaps it was that he could erase files from his laptop, making it a more transient thing, whereas the little plastic boxes had to be physically stored somewhere, hidden from others or himself when he didn't want to admit to them... which was not tonight. He needed _something_ ; something that did _not_ remind him of Jane. A distraction and outlet in one. A safe way to Staggering from the couch, he found the drawer at the back of the TV-stand – he had to find a better place for it, really, especially with the builders coming in – picking one at random and shoving the disc in the player. 

More or less instantaneously, the phone rang. 

His _landline_ , Ben realized, with mounting worry. Less than five people had that number, most of whom were immediate family. Alcohol and fear sloshed uncomfortably in his gut as he lumbered into the hallway to pick up. He frowned at the unknown number – hospital? Was his mother ill? His father? “Hello?”

“...Ben? Hi, sorry; I know it's late...”

“ _Jane?_ ” His hand pushed out to steady him against the wall. 

“Yeah, I just-”

“How'd you get this number?”

“You gave me it.” Her voice shrank, and Ben wanted to kick himself. 

“Of course – of course I did! Sorry. So sorry!” Like an over-eager puppy, only to forget about it. “W... wait, how are you calling me?”

“From my landline.”

“Of course! Of course...” Cockhead. 

“I just wanted to let you know I'd lost my phone – and I know it's a long shot, but I need it for work, you see, and mum's not feeling well, so I thought I'd ask if you'd-”

“I've got it,” Ben burst out. 

“Really?” He could hear her smile in her voice. Her gorgeous, gorgeous smile, beaming through the receiver. Was the whiskey starting to kick in? 

“Yeah, you must have dropped it as we... said goodbye. Anyway, I... I picked it up right away. I tried to catch up with you, but I just missed you as you got on your train.”

Jane's laugh. Jane's glorious, soul-warming laugh! “That's incredible! That's fantastic – I don't know how to thank you, honestly.”

“No, no; that's all right.” Thank him. She wanted to find a way to thank him. Right, the whiskey most definitely had started to kick in. “It's what anyone would have done.”

“No, it isn't. It really isn't, and I don't think you realize how attractive it is that you think so.”

“I'm flattered that you find me attractive.” Wherever this source of suaveness was coming from, Ben would gladly take it. “You're quite welcome to come pick it up right away, if you like. Your phone,” he added, hastily. 

“Are you sure? It's awfully late...”

“Please. You said it was important you got it.”

“I could be there in five minutes, if you're absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely! Let me give you the address.” Ben rattled it off quickly, made her repeat it twice, bade her politely farewell, and set the phone down very, very carefully. 

It didn't mean anything. She was coming to get her phone; that's all this was. Assuring himself, Ben went back into the lounge and sat down heavily. He was halfway through another glass when the words 'five minutes' finally registered in his mind, along with the fact that four of them had already gone by. 

And then the doorbell rang.


	16. Chapter 16

“You're wet,” was all Ben could say to the admittedly drenched figure on his doorstep. “Sorry about the towel,” he added. Oh god, the towel. He'd almost forgotten; the whiskey was very definitely kicking in. 

“Do you have a spare?” 

“I'm sorry?”

"That was a joke, although actually..." Jane made a face, huddling closer to the door and peering inside as though she hadn't been invited in- Ben did a double-take. 

“Oh! God, yes; of course!” Ben threw the door open with a swerve that made him realize the room had quite firmly begun to spin. 

“Thank you! Again, sorry to intrude...” She stepped inside like she was afraid the floor might attack her feet. 

“No, it's fine; it's fine.” She had changed into trousers; they were red and tight and more like an extra layer of skin than genuine coverage. As though her arse were bare, in front of him. Ben caught his lower lip from dropping by biting it firmly. 

“You were taking a shower.”

Ben gave her credit for not making that sound like a question. “You're not the only one who got caught in the rain – come on, go on thr-” the distinct, high definition sound of a woman climaxing came from the lounge. _Oh god, the DVD!_

“Have you got company?” She tried to peer over Ben's shoulder, but she wasn't wearing heels any longer. Ben grabbed her shoulder, felt his towel slip, and secured it with his other hand. 

“No! No, it's just the telly... let me go and turn it off.”

“No, that's all right, I'm just here for my phone...”

_God yes, fuck me harder..._

Had she heard it? Ben bit his lip harder to keep from showing a reaction on his face. “Hang on just a minute, actually – wait here!” It was just a few steps to the door; he shut it firmly, muffling the impending orgasm to some extent. It could be anything now; a party, a lively concert, his heart clamoring furiously against his ribcage...

“I'm getting your carpet all wet,” Jane was muttering when he returned. She was looking down at it, and not at him. Small mercies. That little run had left him dizzy and off-balance, and she was wet and shivering, and this was not helping. 

“It's all right; I'll get your phone.” He'd had enough presence of mind to remove it from the pockets of his jacket, dry it off, and place it on the rather promptly named table in the hall. Ben picked it up, holding it as though to indicate to which degree it was, indeed, a mobile telephone. 

“Thanks.” 

Jane was avoiding looking anywhere near him, searching the wall to either side as though for an escape route. Well, she would have heard the DVD, and here he was in a towel – good grief; best get this over with. “I'd offer you some tea, but I suppose it's rather late...” 

“Yeah,” she pulled her hair behind her ear and tilted her chin, all of a sudden serious; “this probably isn't the right time, but could I ask you something?”

“Yes?” Ben shot back before his brain had time to intervene. Considering their history, he did _not_ want to answer serious-faced questions when inebriated!

“You're probably wondering how I got here so quickly; you're not exactly off the Bakerloo line...”

He hadn't. What with everything. “I didn't think-”

“I wasn't phoning from my place – sorry, I didn't mean to lie, I just didn't know how to... see, after I got home, I had this idea. And it wouldn't let go, and I needed to talk to someone about it – that's when I realized I'd lost my phone; I was going to ring my friend, you see. So I got in a taxi straight to her place, and thankfully she was home, and...” She shook her head, rubbing her temples. “God, I don't even know how to explain this without sounding like an idiot.”

“It's all right,” Ben said. The words didn't matter. Jane's eyes were locked with his, and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. Not rational, no, but he was half naked and drunk; he could hardly be expected to be. “Go on.”

“Well... I had this idea that I might have gotten something completely wrong.”

“Wrong?” Her lips. Moving. Ben grabbed his towel tighter. 

“Please don't get angry.” 

She was kissing him. Softly, overwhelmingly; all plump lips and staggered breath and urgency. She smelled faintly of gin and lemons, and her breasts were tight enough against Ben's chest that he could feel the hard points of her nipples rubbing against him. Of course he groaned, of _course_ he pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her – the towel fell, but who could blame it? And together, they pushed him back against the table where the phone had been, knocking it slightly. He was hard now, instantly, dizzy with the thought of pushing inside her, and she had to feel it, didn't she? 

“Ben...” She was gasping, pulling away to look down. 

Evidently. God, _god_ ; her lips were parting! “Jane...” He clasped a hand against her face, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes. Oh, no. This wouldn't do; it wouldn't do at _all_.

“Yeah...” 

“I'm... I've had a bit to drink.”

“So've I.”

“And... and I don't-” She kissed him again, or possibly it was him this time; at any rate, their mouths were open and meeting, and here was her tongue, pushing questioningly against his. But there was no question: Ben lifted himself on the table, urging Jane between his legs; her tongue into his mouth. They were of a height now; he could still smell the gin on her, and the whiskey on himself, and it was getting increasingly hard to focus. “Jane... Jane?” 

There was a look of panic in her eyes as she stopped. Her hand fell from his thigh, as though she'd been caught stealing. “What's wrong?”

“I'm drunk. You've been drinking. This might not be-” Christ; was he really saying this? Sod his sense of chivalry! “This might not be the best idea.” 

Jane did not move. After several long seconds, she took a deep breath. “Oh,” she said, quietly. 

“I want you! Oh god; please don't get me wrong – I want you so bad I don't know what to do with myself, and I'll hate myself for stopping this-”

“-but it might not be the best idea,” Jane repeated, flatly. 

“Don't you think?” He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? It was no good listening to his body, at this point, but the vague idea that this was _wrong_ was shouting at him from somewhere deep in his buried, rational mind. “The thing is, if you stay right now...”

“No, I get it.” She took a step back, and Ben caught her arm. She looked at it, then him, her face a blank. 

“If you stay,” Ben continued, needing to say this, “it's going to take me about a minute and a half to come, because that's the state I'm in, and I don't want to-”

“Yeah, all right.” Jane pulled away. Was she angry? Upset?

“Jane? Sweet, beautiful...” Ben reached for her face, barely grazing it as she moved towards the door. 

“Stop _calling_ me that!” 

“Why? You're amazing; you're gorgeous! I'm so incredibly flattered and lucky to have found you, and I want everything good for you, do you see? Jane; you're fantastic!” 

“And you're drunk.” She smiled, finally, blowing wet hair from her face. 

“Come back for breakfast!” It wasn't soon enough, but she could hardly stay the night if there were to be any point to this. 

“I can't; I've got work in the morning.” 

“I'll meet you for lunch. I'll bring lunch! I'll come to the shop, all right?”

“All right.” She was already half-way out the door. It struck Ben that he should probably move, seated, as he was, naked on his hallway phone table. 

“Lunch,” he said, dropping awkwardly to his feet. 

“All right,” Jane replied. Most likely. The door had shut, and it was raining even harder outside.


	17. Chapter 17

It wasn't morning yet; that was about the only thing of Ben could be entirely sure. Rolling sideways on the makeshift bed – the bedroom was still being refurbished, leaving him with little more than a couple of matresses stacked on top of one another on the floor, which quite honestly had been rather practical when he had fallen onto them a few hours earlier – he fumbled for his phone. 

Phone... phone... there was something about that, something he should remember. Remember not to forget? Oh, there it was, wedged between one pillow and the stack of books serving as a bedside table. Or mattress-side table. He fished it out and woke it, wincing at the bright display. 4 AM. When had he gone to bed, finally; two? Three? No wonder he was still drunk. What presented more of a mystery was how the hell he had seen fit to wake after just a one or two hours. Ben groaned, grinding his face deep into the pillows. Jesus. He didn't have anything on tomorrow, did he? He wasn't working, so no call, thankfully. Call. He frowned. _Call_. Should he... was there someone he should call? On the phone? There was definitely something about a phone, he remembered that quite vividly. Having turned onto his front, he felt uncomfortably uncomfortable; like he was lying on top of an... oh, right. Cock. Hard cock. Ben took firm hold of it, just in case it got any ideas, squeezing it gently, and because she was never far away from his mind even at the foggiest, most whiskey-addled of times, there was Jane. Ben smiled at the image of her; the memory of her hips and breasts and lips- 

He started. _Lips_. Good fucking Christ, she'd been _here;_ he had _kissed_ her! Ground against her, opened for her; why, why, _why_ hadn't he fallen to his knees and begged her to let him lick her, just a little, just so she could come, and he could see how fucking gorgeous she looked from down there! Damn, _damn_! He was still drunk, wasn't he? Yes, he'd already established that, he must have kept drinking after she'd left. What was it now? Right. 4 AM. He'd checked that already. He was so hard. It _hurt_. Wait – the phone! He scrambled for it, fumbling for the button to turn the screen on again. What was it called? It was definitely called something. He stared at the screen. It was still too bright, but Ben knew Jane's number was on there, somewhere. It was all right to call her now, because she'd be asleep, and her phone would be off, or away, or both. Or maybe turned off. So it'd be OK; it'd be fine for him to call her. 

_Jane? Oh, darling. You're so absolutely, absolutely gorgeous and fucking amazing, and I wanted you to know that I miss you. You sweet thing, you. I didn't want you to leave, I wanted to keep you here and get you naked. You have the most fantastic breasts, and I just, I want to put my mouth on them. Jane! Oh, please, I wish; I hope you'd let me. Would you let me suck your breasts? I've been thinking about them a lot, you know. I like your body, I really, really like the way your waist is sort of... sort of... I'm trying to make a shape, but you can't see it because you're not here! And I'm hard for you, Jane. I wish you could see that. I don't – is there a camera thing on here? I can't send you pictures, I don't think that's a good idea, because of, you know, the papers and things. Media. I don't want the whole fucking world to see me. But I want you to see me; I'm hard for you. And I-_

There was a click, and a sort of buzz-y sound, and the phone slipped from Ben's hands. Huh. Better try again. 

_Jane, darling. I want you so much. Is it OK for me to call you and tell you that? I keep trying to imagine your face – I mean, I know your face, it's wonderful. I remember kissing you, how every moment of that felt, and your thighs, I want to feel them in my hands again. Those jeans were painted on you, I know that's a stupid, shallow thing to say, but god, you don't understand, you cannot comprehend how fucking hard I am for you right now. I know I've said that before. Haven't I? It's on my mind, you see. I need to come. I need to come. I want to taste so much of you, d'you know how bad I want that? I suppose I keep telling you. Look. It's very, very late. And I don't want to worry you or have any more misunderstandings happen because we've had so many._

He turned on his back, which felt infinitely more comfortable, and stroked himself, slowly. Well, why not? It felt more awkward than usual, which Ben quickly realized was because he was using his left hand, holding the phone in his right. He could swap, he supposed, but that seemed an insurmountable endavor at the moment. He kept talking, the words more a relief than the touch of his palm and fingers. 

_I'm so glad I met you. If you never want to see me again, that's all right, because I'll have tonight – what am I saying. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm a little drunk. Drunk and horney. Why would you want a pervy, horse-faced, drunkard, Jane? Dearest. You don't want me; you shouldn't want me. I'll stop talking about your breasts now. Have I told you how irresistable they are? I think about them all the time. I'm thinking about them all the time. God. I'll stop talking. I have to – I love you. You're wonderful, you're a dream. I have to go._

True words. His left hand wasn't doing it; he needed more, and as the phone dropped, his right took over eagerly, hurriedly. Ben swore, thrusting into his slack wrist and whining, pulling at the sheets, thrusting and thrusting until he spilled all over himself and the duvet, and possibly his phone. It was hard to tell; his head was spinning. _I've wanked myself into oblivion,_ he giggled, slipping back into sleep, at least somewhat blissfully. He'd deal with whatever it was that was nagging at the back of his mind, still, tomorrow. Everything could wait until the alarm rang.

Which was all fine and well, but for the fact that as morning came and went, the alarm did _not_ ring.


	18. Chapter 18

“You must be Ben.” The woman behind the counter was making a fine job of greeting him politely, if surprisingly intimately. She was smiling, and her head was tilted slightly to one side, as though the fact that he _was_ Ben might not be as readily apparent as she was making out. Having run most of the way there, barring one or two incidents in the Tube – it was already rush hour, for fuck's sake, and he was staring at this perfectly polite woman. Who knew his name. He should probably answer her. 

“I am.”

“I'm Nureen.”

“Hello Nureen. I'm here to see Jane – ”

The woman held up a hand, nodding. “Yeah, she told me; she said you'd be late.”

“Yeah, I'm really sorry about that; I was going-”

“She said to tell you she got your messages.”

Ben stopped his hand on its way to his mouth. It really wouldn't do to chew his fingersnails right now. “Did she.” Nureen would have done well as a professional poker player; her face a mask of barely concealed snark. 

“ _And_ she said not to worry, but she's going away for a while.”

“She... what?” Ben reached out to steady himself on a display, nearly knocking a set of matching white chocolate pigeons off their shelves. 

“Careful with that.”

“Where's she going, do you know?”

“Off to see her nan in Barcelona. She's been planning it for months.”

And had not mentioned it to Ben. Rather convenient with a nan in Barcelona, of course, if you found yourself suddenly needing some space. Ben searched Nureen's face, but there was nothing to find there. “Right.”

“Oh, and she said she wouldn't be bringing her phone.”

“Ah.” Better and better. What the hell had he _said_ , last night? If only he'd texted; he could have read it after the fact – though perhaps that would not have helped. Yeah, no; that definitely would not have helped. 

“She can't use it in Spain, anyway. She said you might not have her e-mail...”

“I don't, actually. Could I...” He hurried over, carefully avoiding the other displays in the tiny shop. 

“Sure, yeah.” Nureen produced a card, which had the name of the shop printed in pink and blue glittery letters on the front. Her _business_ e-mail. Ben's heart sank again. 

“Thank you,” he said anyway, pocketing it. “She's got my details, I suppose.” Nureed tittered, and honestly, that took the cake. Fucking hell, he was thinking in baking metaphors now. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's uncanny,” she said, taking a bite out of an apple that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. “You're exactly like she said.”

“Am I?” _She's talked about me. Good? Or bad?_

“God, yeah. Oh,” she added, a trace of sympathy creeping in, “it's all good. Mostly. Lately, anyway.”

“Well, we've had our ups and downs.”

Nureen shrugged. “You should Skype her.”

Ben felt the outline of the card in his pocket. “You think?”

“Absolutely. I think she really wanted to talk to you. Shame you couldn't make it to lunch; she got all anxious about that.”

“Right...” Ben wanted to sink into the floor. But she hadn't phoned him, had she? Of course, they didn't have the best experience with phones, all told. 

“And then she said you'd probably show up in a few hours, and headed to the airport.”

“Right. The thing is, I'm going to be away too.”

“Oh yes?” Nureen examined her apple. “Where you off to?”

“Erm, Japan. Then Los Angeles. Then – well, I'll be away a while.”

“They've got the internet in Japan, don't they?”

“I suppose they do.”

“Would you like a hot cross bun? They're half off. Price, not freshness. Though they're not all that fresh either, truth be told.”

Ben got half a dozen.

* * *

_Hi Jane,_

_Just making sure this is the right address. Nureen – I think that was her name, sorry if I got it wrong (I know, no apologies, but speaking as someone who's used to having his name mangled) – told me I could Skype you, but I wanted to make sure this was the right address for that, too. Can't be too careful. I'm in Japan at the moment, things are a bit mad, and I'd love to talk to you about it. I miss your voice. I hope everything is all right. And by god, I hope this is the right address._

_Ben x_

* * *

He was trying not to smoke too much, but when you couldn't eat and couldn't drink to excess, what was left? Yes, well; apart from the obvious. Even in California, which didn't really feel like the real world in any of the ways that mattered, Ben tried not to overdo the obvious. When you were rich and 'important' people – for a given value of important - you did get quality thrown after you, be it women or booze or drugs, but that was a road he did not particularly want to go down. Not now. And not, perhaps thankfully, that there was much time in which to party. Ben wasn't really in the mood. 

He had tried the address on Skype, of course. Searching, he found nothing, which, he supposed, meant she wasn't on there. Maybe Nureen had gotten it wrong. Maybe she'd been messing with his head; Lord knew. But night after night; morning after Spanish morning, if you will, there was no Jane listed, and were no e-mails. 

And perhaps... perhaps that was that. 

Certainly his friends did their best to tell him as much. Adam teased him gently, James took the piss (to distract him; it very nearly worked) and Martin sent him e-mails pretending to be her:

_Wotcha, Ben!_

_I've got really big tits, would you like to have a feel of them? Sorry for not replying sooner; I was too busy feeling myself up. Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself,_

_Love and kisses,  
\- Janey waney_

And then there was his mom. His mom, who sent him page-long e-mails about absolutely anything else she could think of, carefully, Ben knew, touch typed with a cup of tea sitting dangerously near the new laptop he'd gotten her for Christmas. 

Really, he was a lucky man. Far too lucky, and far too greedy. There were all too many women willing to throw himself at him, for reasons ranging from the absurd to the possibly workable, so why should he force his time and energy on one who wasn't? (Because he still woke with his hand on his cock and her name on his lips, but that was neither here nor there.)

Cardiff beckoned. He should forget. And by the time he was on the train there, sipping lukewarm tea and reading old newspapers, he very nearly had. 

Getting into wardrobe, getting punched by Martin; gently scolded by Mark and hugged by Amanda; little famliar things all setting his mind more to rest than it had been for months. Perhaps not since before this all started. Felt like years ago. Eons. 

“Took long enough,” Martin commented, nodding at Ben's shoulder. It still stung. 

“You didn't punch me that hard.”

“No, you cock. Behind you.” 

Hardly thinking, Ben turned. 

Her face was in the crowd. Red coat. Heels that could kill you. Hair that would make you not care you had been. Eyes meeting his. 

“Wave,” Martin prompted. 

Ben did.


	19. Chapter 19

“Well,” Martin groused, nibbling at what Ben assumed was some sort of sandwich; “what did you expect? Her to burst through the barricades-”

“This isn't Les Miserables.”

“Shut up. Have your tea.”

“Lunch.”

“Whatever. Eat. And yeah, we're not in Les fucking Miserables. That's not how life works.”

“Thankfully, if you ask me.” 

“ _Eat_. I'm starting to sound like your dad now, and that makes me feel old.”

“You are old.” Ben, nonetheless, took another bite out of his own sandwich. He _was_ hungry, and he could eat; necessarily though, he was somewhat distracted. “And no, I wasn't expecting her to run across the street and sweep me up into her arms-”

“Too right. Even in heels, you're a head taller; you'd look like a cock. Even more so than usual.”

“I suppose... it was just...” he cringed at the term, “anticlimactic.”

Martin rolled his eyes and threw a grape at him. “Oh, for fuck's sake.”

“I know. It's true though. I feel like I've been the lead in some awful romantic comedy for a little too long, and not in a good way. Real life doesn't work like that. ” She would come see him later. Of course she would; why bother to show up, if not? There were photographers there; press, droves of insta-blogging fans with smartphones, who would quite happily snap pictures of discarded coffee cups and call it an exciting update. He got why she wouldn't run up to see him. He did. Really. 

“I thought that was what you wanted; playing a romantic lead, finally. Look at it as practice. You're method, aren't you?”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

Martin nodded, picking up the basket a runner had just placed at their rickety table. “Fair enough; I'll take these with me, then.”

Ben looked up. The basket, currently in Martin's exaggeratedly greedy grip, was full of bite-sized little cupcakes in cheerful, yellow wrappers. “What are those?”

“These?” Martin shrugged, nonchalantly. “Look like muffins to me. Cupcakes, maybe. They're the ones with enough white, creamy topping to look like someone-”

“Martin,” Ben yelled quickly and loudly, glancing at the runner who was still hovering. 

“-on top of them,” he finished, perfectly deadpan. “What?”

“You're awful, you know.” Ben snatched one that was in danger of falling over the side, not trusting Martin to catch it. It smelled strongly of bananas and toffee. He bit into it with the belated realization that he really should have checked where the hell they had come from before scoffing away. Too late now; he certainly wasn't spitting this out! Thick, creamy toffee clung to the roof of his mouth – that'd be the filling - the rest of it coating his fingers messily. He stuck them in his mouth, to Martin's barking laughter.

“We've been over this! I'm not interested. I don't care what Amanda says; I won't suck you off; you can stop flirting.”

“Where did these come from,” Ben turned to the runner, ignoring Martin. It was a girl, barely out of her teens, who keep looking at Martin and blushing. 

“This woman came in with them, said they were for you.” 

“And you just took them,” Martin snapped, instantly on his feet. “You can't just accept food from random people! Jesus; I thought they were from the caterers; spit that out, Ben!” 

The girl looked panic-stricken. “Sorry! S... sorry; she said she was your girlfriend!” 

“You know what Amanda looks like.”

“No; sorry,” the girl nodded at Ben, in desperation, “ _his_ girlfriend.”

Martin didn't miss a beat. “Big girl, heels high enough to make your knees hurt?”

“Um. Yeah.”

They would have exchanged meaningful glances, but Ben was already running to the barricades. Fuck it. _Vive La Revolution_.

* * *

She was there, right at the front. Watching him, running towards her like Hugh Grant reimagined by Picasso. She actually took a step back when he came right up to the railing, but Ben didn't even slow down. To the point where he crashed into the metal bar, just about catching it and bracing himself. He ignored the feel of it and the burning in his hands, just as he ignored the screaming, yelling horde surrounding them. He leaned forward, and the crowd parted for him. _Moses_ , he thought, fighting the urge to giggle. Jane was still too far away, hesitating, but losing the battle with a smile, and some of the people around her had begun nudging her, gently asking if she knew him. (Some not so gently, not so politely phrasing themselves, but fuck them. Ben would find and deal with them later.) “Come here,” he said, hoping she was close enough to hear. 

Jane shook her head, and Ben could practically _hear_ the phones being turned on them; fingers tapping out messages, taking pics, uploading their own version of events. Good. It mattered not one single, delicious cupcake. "Come,” he said again, leaning over further, feet nearly leaving the ground. 

“You sure,” she asked, and Ben realized what she was really saying. _Is this OK? Do you want them to see? Are we-_ But they were, and she decided in the same moment he did, their bodies and lips crashing together in the least romantic way possible. 

All cheer. 

This would have been the end, Ben thought, arms wrapped around Jane's welcome body, close enough for her perfume to sting his eyes. In a romantic comedy, this is where you zoom out, and assume... what do you assume, really? That everything will be all right? That things will carry on more or less in the same fashion for the rest of the lives of the characters? It wasn't the sort of thing you thought about. Escapism doesn't further thought, perhaps beyond some vague idea of 'aww'. He thought about Jane's skin; the look and feel of it, and what it would be like on his tongue. He thought about the fact that his trailer was right around the back, and that it had a lock on it. He thought about how much of a dirty old man those previous thoughts made him, and wouldn't Martin be ticked off that he'd taken his title. But then Jane pulled back, laughing, and he forgot everything except that. 

“I'll text you later. I got a hotel.” She bit her lip, and the wonderful thing was, there was no sort of question in her voice. None at all. 

“Not sure I can wait that long.”

“Good. That'll make things interesting.”

“I have to go back.”

“I know.”

“This'll be all over – well, I mean, it'll already be all over the internet.” _Do you mind?_

“That'll save us taking our own pictures, won't it?” _Of course not, you idiot!_

Ben smiled. “Take care of my girlfriend,” he told the crowd, and ran back.

* * *

“I hear the zombies are attacking,” Martin commented when Ben reached him, seconds later, the roar of the fans following him like a siren. He was eating a muffin. “Sticky stuff, this.”

“Yeah, well. That's love for you.”

“You sure she'll be all right? Are they mauling her?”

“Nah. She'll head back to the hotel if it gets bad.”

Martin shook his head. “You've too much faith in basic human decency, that's your problem.” He licked stray caramel off his lips. “Hotel, yeah?”

Ben nodded. 

“Do you need condoms?”

“Only when I'm fucking your girlfriend behind your back.”

“So that's why she started sleeping on the other side of the bed. Sneaky.” Above his words, Martin's eyes narrowed, the lines around them saying something else entirely. So Ben leaned over, and as the crowd quietened down what seemed like far behind them, hugged him as hard as he had Jane.

* * *

That wasn't the end either, of course. They spent that night in the hotel, and Ben was tired, and both of them too excited and therefore frustrated for it to be anything less than a catastrophe. But it was a _fantastic_ catastrophe, which none of them could clearly remember afterwards, though that might have been the wine they had later. 

Nor was that the end. There is no end; not when you've found something that truly fits. The curtain doesn't lift. There is no fade to black. It just goes on. 

If you're lucky.


End file.
